


love like mountains

by betony



Category: The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Pre-Canon, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can I describe Manaliabrid to you, in those early days?<br/>(Manaliabrid, the Adon, and Lagan. The truth is more complicated than the ballads would have it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	love like mountains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



I was hardly more than a boy when first I met Manaliabrid of the Undying. If I strain my memory, I remember myself as I was then: untried, untested, unaware of the destiny that would tie us together—but man enough, even then, to notice that she was like no other woman I had met before. 

I was at the hunt with my father and brother—a near-daily torment, when weather allowed, as it did today. Riding beside my bloodthirsty father, and my brother with his contemptible habit of charming his quarry into docility, the better to lead them to the slaughter, was almost unbearable. As soon as I could, I stole away to find my way back to our hall unnoticed—since my father wouldn’t notice if day turned to night, as long as my brother was my his side—but I turned the wrong way before I had gone too far, and I caught sight of her. 

She had long brown hair sweat-stuck to her brow, and wide-set eyes as green as her gown. Her clothing looked more like the fashions my grandmother would have worn, but of exquisite quality; for all the care she took of them, they might have been rags. She was kneeling in a clearing, digging in the soil with her own bare hands, and she smiled when she caught saw of me, and oh, then I was lost. 

“You needn’t be frightened, boy,” she told me, tilting her head back to look at me where I stood at the edge of the clearing, “I’m only looking for my sweetroots, and then I’ll be gone.” 

“No!” I said despite myself, sliding down from my horse, and when her brow furrowed in confusion, “I mean—don’t go. Let me help.” I would have gone on longer, would have promised anything if only she would never leave, but she laughed again and beckoned me closer. “Like these,” she said, holding up the roots she’d already found, and my fingers raked through the ground, desperate to uncover as many as it would take to impress her. 

At first I wondered if she was the daughter of one of the local Earls. How convenient that would have been; I could have spoken to my father about arranging a betrothal between us two, and we would never been separated again, but after a few moments’ conversation, I could see what a ridiculous thought that was. I had met every daughter of our neighboring Earls, and insipid, shallow creatures they seemed to me now, and she resembled nothing of them. What was more, she hardly seemed to recognize me in return. When I introduced myself as the Earl of Hannart’s son, she only nodded politely, as though I had told her something of as little significance as the color of the sky, or the style of my hair. 

For the first time in my life, someone saw me as myself, not as my father’s son, as the caricature created by my brother’s slanders, and I loved her all the more for it. 

* * *

How can I describe Manaliabrid to you, in those early days? She laughed frequently, and every time she did, and I was the cause of it, my heart leapt. Her long hands were stained with her herbs she collected, to use in her healing; and if man or woman stood at death’s door, she could bring them back, return the bloom to their cheeks and the strength to their limbs. She was older than me, true, but she never changed, the one constant and comfort of my life. 

I pointed her out to my brother once, from afar, and he only cast one of his lazy, vague looks in her direction before turning back to me. “She’s lovely, brother,” he drawled, “and now, if you’d pay more attention to listening when I try to teach you how to hold your sword instead of ogling fetching strangers, perhaps Father wouldn’t be as disappointed in you as he is.” 

He didn’t love her, not as I did, never as I did—it wasn’t until he realized how much I did that he suddenly began to desire her. That was always his way, from childhood. It holds little surprise to me now. 

But enough of my brother. My story is already full of his machinations; instead, I choose happier subjects: that of my love. 

Our separations were frequent but always painful; she had responsibilities elsewhere, she told me, and could only come to find me as permitted. I spent my days away from her dreaming of what we’d do when we were together, what I’d tell her, how I’d finally manage to show her the depth and breadth and utter sincerity of my feelings. 

I met a man, once, with pale, soft hands, who smiled sympathetically at me as I sat in the woods, free from my unkind father and boorish brother, and longed for her. 

Without needing to be told, he said: “I can make sure you have her, all to yourself, for all time.” 

Who could have resisted a promise like that? But I was clever, and I knew such prizes always came with a price, and I told him to be off about his work. 

He smiled again. My shrewdness pleased him. He said: “I can help you bear her absence, then.” 

And I, hollow and aching inside, said: “Go on. I'm listening.” 

* * *

He did not lie. Not quite. 

Magic did help ease the hole in my life that her absence created, and in time I grew quite proficient at it, but in no way could it replace her. 

When next she returned, I set out to impress her. I made illusory roses fall from the trees, flocks of birds sing for her, rainbows circle her. She clapped her hands politely, but when I told her from where I’d learned my tricks, her enthusiasm faded. “I know you better than you think,” she told me. “Your place isn’t with him.” 

We quarreled then; the first time we ever parted in anger, and I realized that I had grown to love magic on its own merits. I nurtured my talents until even my teacher told me he was impressed, and I sent him away when I realized what he meant to do with his magic, and mine. There is only so much that a good man can tolerate, and besides I had already learned all I needed. 

When next we spoke, I told Manaliabrid what I had done, and she squeezed my hands and told me she was proud of me. 

And I closed my eyes, and felt the surge of power beneath my skin, and I knew I had managed to keep them both. 

* * *

To this day, I swear what happened at the archery contest was a mistake. I had forgotten that I’d poisoned that set of arrows when my brother taunted me on the field, and forgotten too that I had an arrow in my hand, ready to shoot, when I lunged at him, seizing his collar in rage But who could blame me? He spoke of my mother, repeated the lies bandied about, of how she tried to murder my brother and my father had had to murder her himself in defense of his son. And if, just previously, I had reminded him of how his wife had died in childbed when he was away on our father’s business, leaving his son to grow up motherless, it was nothing more than what he deserved. 

I had liked Eltred, much more than I’d intended to like any woman fool enough to marry my brother. She hadn’t deserved to die wishing her husband would come with no one but his brother to comfort her. 

He crumpled into seconds after the arrowhead sank into his skin. These nights, still I wake with the memory fresh in my mind, of how his face grew ashen, how his breathing slowed, how my brother’s pet Singer gave a shout of alarm, how my father wailed with terror, and I’m not sure I shiver with horror or pleasure. 

I thought: _He’s been poisoned._ And, as hordes of healers entered and exited our hall, all unsuccessful: _He will surely die._ And I thought: _But Manaliabrid could save him_. 

For the first time in my life, I tried to seek her out, sent messages throughout the country, begging her to return, to help me. And just when I tottered on the brink of despair, there she stood before: tall, grand Manaliabrid, come out of the east to make up for what I’d done. 

I kissed her then, in relief and gratitude. She blinked a little and began to say, “My friend, I—“ but I could hear no more, not until my brother grew well once more. 

When I took her to him, my brother lay in bed, his son tending to him with to the best of his six-year-old ability. My brother’s Singer, he of the ridiculous name, sat beside him, frowning. When Manaliabrid entered the room, she looked at him and he at her. The Singer let his shoulders slump, but my Manaliabrid’s face grew grim; it grew grimmer still as she bent over her patient. 

“Who added this poison to the arrowtip?” she asked, eyes not looking away from the wound as she prodded its weeping edges. “It’s vile. And how was the wound inflicted?” 

I could not bear to have her think ill of me. I could not bear to lie to her. I didn’t reply. 

A hoarse voice answered instead. 

“Nonsense,” gasped my brother, half-opening his eyes. “Only a scratch—” 

Manaliabrid smiled, and for the first time, it broke my heart. I hated my brother all the more, for drawing that soft, tender expression from her when it had always been meant only for me. “Quite a bit more than that, I’m afraid. I’m not sure what would have happened if your brother hadn’t sent for a proper healer.” 

My brother let out what was probably meant to be a laugh, but turned into a hacking cough halfway through. “Well—since you’ve come—all this way—“ 

“Very kind of you. Might I have you turn to the side so I can have a better look?” 

“Don’t believe—we’ve met,” said my brother, obligingly shifting over with Osfameron’s help, and Manaliabrid turned expectantly to me. 

Grudgingly, I said: “Lady Manaliabrid, this is my brother Kellen, familiarly called the Adon. And Kellen, this is Manaliabrid of the Undying, come to save your sorry self. You might be more courteous.” 

For once in my life, the bastard obeyed me; he kissed her hand before she could stop him, and the tips of her ears went pink. 

I looked away. 

* * *

You’ve heard the stories. You know she cured him. You know my damned brother courted her from his sickbed, you know she made her promises of love to him before she knew better, you knew by the time he was walking again, Hannart was buzzing of how their heir would soon wed again. 

Whatever else you might say about my brother, he _is_ charming, when he wants to be. She was utterly helpless before him when he said: "All I want, Manaliabrid, is to follow wherever you go," she laughed, my soft-hearted beauty, and believed him. As though she wouldn't be trapped by his own nobility, his own self-importance, as poor Eltred had been; as if she wouldn't always come to second to his own heroism. 

You know how he cheated me out of the only thing I’d ever wanted. 

* * *

Once, three months after my brother had been healed, Manaliabrid and I sat at table with him and his musician Osfameron. Osfameron made polite conversation with us, and asked Manaliabrid about a great deal of acquaintances they had in common, but she turned her face from him and only answered shortly. My brother lured her into conversation, however, forcing smiles and laughter from her when she'd clearly rather continue to show her displeasure to the upstart Singer. 

She got up very quickly once the last dishes were cleared. Kellen reached over the table to clasp her hand and raise his eyebrows at her. She shook her head, and he released her; soon he and Osfameron were laughing and joking once more, Manaliabrid forgotten, I ignored as always. 

I followed her. My brother might have been dissuaded from it by a shake of her head, but I, at least, would not be so neglectful. 

“He’s distressing you,” I said once we were alone. “Shall I kill him for you?” 

“What?” Manaliabrid stared at me. “No! It’s nothing of the sort. Lagan, my friend—Osfameron’s my uncle. I—We haven’t seen each other in years, and we’ve never gotten along. It’s nothing to concern you.” 

Another similarity between us: how our own flesh and blood disappointed us. I would have offered my commiseration, tried to explain how I was the only one who could understand, but instead I found myself asking: “Does Kellen know how you feel?” 

“Does it matter?” 

Couldn’t she see? Did it escape her how weak and feeble my brother was, how unwilling to send away his friend if the woman he claimed to adore disliked him, how my brother would never love her half as well as I did? 

“If he loved you, truly loved you, as you deserve to be loved, he would never choose Osfameron over you.” 

Manaliabrid sighed. “And if I loved him, truly loved him, I would never ask him to choose.” 

She could have run a sword through me, and it would have been kinder. 

I told her, then, years too late. The words came out a whimper rather than the declaration they should have been, but it was all wrong by then, all wrong: “ _I_ love you.” 

“I know.” She stretched out her hand to cup my cheek, and kissed me so lightly I didn’t realize it until she had pulled away. “But love does what it will, Lagan. I will always be sorry for your pain.” 

“No,” I begged. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again, and then she was gone. 

* * *

I have not seen her since. 

In the morning, she and Kellen, Osfameron and Kastri with them, left for the south. Around me they whispered that they had fled because they feared I would kill my brother, but even in this I saw Manaliabrid’s hand in this, as well, her kindness and her gentleness. I think she wanted to spare me pain, to spare me the sight of him and her together. 

But her compassion is unnecessary. 

I know how our story is meant to end, with the lad who met the fair maiden as a child winning her hand at last, despite insurmountable obstacles. I have loved her as deep as mountains' roots go into the ground, as unchanging as their course. All that remains is to dispose of my brother. All my childhood’s offenses I have forgiven him, but no more. Once I roamed the land to have his wound healed; now either his life must come to an end, or mine. 

My father, in a few short days, will not be any threat at all; I paid as much attention to Manaliabrid’s analysis of the ingredients of the poison as to the way she neutralized them. I have an army ready, and my own formidable skills; I might have sent Kankredin away while still only half-taught, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the best part of his skills. 

In the forest, once my brother is out of our lives forever, I will go to her, in a clearing, much like the one where we first met. And I will cup her cheeks in my hand, and I will say: “I know you better than you think. Your place is not with him.” 

And she will come to me. 

I have only to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps fitting for an old ballad cycle, what information we get about the Adon, Manaliabrid, and company in the Quartet is limited. Most of this comes from the brief summary found in _Cart and Cwidder_ , supplemented with the brief look at the Adon and Manaliabrid in _Crown of Dalemark_. I've actually used "the Guide to Dalemark"'s version only briefly; for example, this is where we find that Lagan was a student of Kankredin's, and apparently responsible for having the Adon unjustly exiled (though C &C describes them as voluntarily fleeing Lagan). All errors are, of course, solely my own, but nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this!


End file.
